


Come here & never leave this place

by missmichellebelle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey might not be able to fix Ian, but he sure as fuck can be there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come here & never leave this place

**Author's Note:**

> I had an issue with the way Fiona told Mickey about Ian's disorder in the show, like if they took Ian to a doctor it would immediately result in him ending up in a psych ward. This isn't exactly a remedy for that, but I was feeling kind of shitty myself so I decided to channel it into something.
> 
> Sorry that Ian's bipolar disorder is so heavily influenced by my own depression. I know full well they aren't the same thing, but. From my experience, when people in those states tell you to fuck off, it usually means, "Please don't leave, please don't fucking leave." So. Yeah.

Mickey sits on his living room couch in the dark, and stares at the wall. He has a cigarette hanging between his lips, but he hasn’t lit it yet. Doesn’t have his lighter. Knows exactly which pocket it’s sitting in on the floor of his room, but—he can’t go in there. It’s like being in the room with a dead person when all you want to do is bring them back to life, but how the fuck do you even start trying to do that?

So he sits in the dark, knowing full well there’s another lighter somewhere in the house if he just bothered looking for it, but he doesn’t even chance turning on the lights. Doesn’t want to alert anyone to his presence, like they’ll see what a chicken shit he actually is. See what a fucking liar he is, hiding in the dark from a broken boy who doesn’t even seem to know he’s there.

Mickey said he was going to take care of Ian, but what the fuck does he know about taking care of anyone?

*

He wakes up on the couch to Mandy’s foot prodding him in the stomach.

“Get your nasty ass feet away from me,” Mickey grumbles, twisting around to burrow further into the couch. He has no idea when he finally passed out, but he knows he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep.

“You slept out here? Again?” Mandy demands, her voice sharp edged. Mickey just groans. “Ian fucking _needs_ you right now, you douchebag.” When her foot hits his back, it feels less like a prod and more like a full-fledged _kick_.

“Ian doesn’t even fucking know I’m _there_ ,” Mickey spits back, keeping his face to the back of the couch, his eyes closed, his words hard.

“You honestly believe that? You really _fucking_ believe that?” She kicks him two more times.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Mandy.” Mickey sits up under her onslaught, too dazed with exhaustion to try and catch her foot and flip her on her back like he normally would. Her attack stops, but anger is still rolling off her in waves. It’s the most emotion he’s seen her have in weeks, and there is shit going on there. There’s just fucking shit _everywhere_ , and Mickey has no idea where to start or how.

“You better help him.” She gives him a stern look, and her voice wavers in that way that makes Mickey’s brotherly instincts flare up, makes him want to protect her.

“You think I don’t want to? You think I like just fucking sitting here with my hand up my ass?” Mickey growls in frustration, raking his fingers through his hair. “If you got any ideas, I’m listenin’, because I don’t know what the _fuck_ to do.”

Mandy stares at him hard for a few more seconds, before seeming to understand just how much shit is going on with Mickey, too.

Seriously, shit _everywhere_.

“Then figure it out.”

*

Common sense told Mickey that there was a public library, but he’s never been there before in his life. Not that he’s fucking illiterate, or anything, reading just isn’t something he _does_. Never needed to do, never wanted to do.

He stands outside the imposing looking building, hands stuffed into his coat pockets as people mill past him, and then mutters a fuck under his breath before he heads for the doors.

Because it’s something he does need to do now.

*

The woman behind the circulation desk keeps shooting him wary looks, and the last fucking thing Mickey wants to do is ask the bitch for help. Like he needs it. He nearly flips her out, but he didn’t lug his ass all the way there to get kicked out, so he settles on a _fuck you_ glare instead before he wanders towards the shelves.

Problem is, he has no idea what the fuck he’s looking for. Ideally, there would be a book about bipolar disorder or whatever the fuck it is that Ian has that would give Mickey all the answers. Would tell him everything he needed to do to make Ian _better_. Anything that doesn’t involve him seeing a fucking doctor.

Fiona had said that’s what Ian needed, but if a doctor means that Ian is going to be locked away for being crazy or some other crock shit, Mickey’s not going to chance it. Ian isn’t _crazy_. Ian is… Ian is _Ian_ , and he can be kind of a controlling dick sometimes, who talks too fast and gets too excited and looks at him with these big doe eyes that someone who grew up in the Southside has no fucking right having, like there’s still some innocence in tact. Innocence that goes right out the fucking window as soon as Ian so much as smirks at him. Ian is a lot of fucking things, but he’s not some nutcase, and Mickey isn’t letting anyone take Ian away from him.

Not again.

Mickey picks up the closest, most important-looking book like it might be the answer, but the first few sentences are about vampires and he realizes he’s not even in the right _ballpark_. How the fuck is he supposed to find one book among a fucking thousand? Fuck.

He walks aimlessly among the shelves before he happens upon rows and rows of computers. The Milkovich family has never owned a computer, but Mickey still knows how to use one. His eyes shift around, like he’s expecting someone to catch him—for what, he’s not sure—before he quietly takes a seat behind one of them.

It must be luck that it’s already open to the internet, and Mickey casts another look around before he bows his head and starts to slowly type into the search bar.

**bipolar disorder**

**how to help people with bipolar disorder**

**bipolar disorder suicide**

**bipolar disorder hospitalization**

**bipolar disorder mood episodes**

**how long do bipolar disorder mood episodes last**

**does bipolar disorder go away**

**help someone with bipolar disorder without meds**

**how to cure bipolar disorder**

**do people with bipolar disorder ever get better**

**bipolar disorder meds**

**bipolar disorder mood stabilizers**

**free clinic bipolar disorder chicago**

**how to get bipolar disorder meds without health insurance**

*

Mickey doesn’t leave the library until long after the sun goes down, eyes aching, chest constricted, and a piece of paper covered in his chicken scratch crumpled up in his pocket. He stands outside for a few moments, breathing the cold air and staring up at the dark sky, still trying to digest the pages upon pages of information he just dug up and tried to understand. From clinical websites to personal accounts, he’d read as much as he could find that was relevant. It didn’t all make sense, and a lot of it made him angry. Or hopeless. Mickey doesn’t quite know the difference between the two, but he doesn’t like the feeling either way.

At the end of it all, he does know two things for sure, though.

One: he needs to get home; he needs to be with Ian.

Two: the Gallaghers don’t know _shit_.

*

His bedroom is still and stale, like stagnant water. He’s spent so little time in it that it practically looks untouched, except for the way the blankets on the bed are twisted and pulled differently. Those change, every time Ian seems to have enough energy to turn over. Mickey stares into the darkness, gripping the doorjamb and waiting to maybe see Ian during one of those moments. But the light flooding in from the living room isn’t even enough to make Ian twitch.

With a heavy sigh, Mickey pushes himself into the room, closing the door behind him with a finality he hasn’t done in days. If he has to ask Mandy to barricade the fucking thing, he will.

No running away tonight.

He keeps his eyes intently on Ian as he strips out of his clothes, for once hoping that Ian will actually catch him looking. Mickey might not even deny that he was, if it meant Ian would say more than three fucking words in a row.

Always the same words. The ones that dug under all of Mickey’s insecurities and doubts and drove him away so fucking easily it pisses him off. Like Ian is doing it on purpose. Like he knows all the things Mickey is afraid of, and Ian not needing him is one that he can hardly even admit to himself yet.

The bed feels too big when he sits in it, peeled down to just his boxers. Mickey stares at the space between his knees, at the dark, innocuous carpet beyond, and breathes deeply before he swings his legs up on the mattress.

Ian doesn’t react, and Mickey would think he was sleeping, if his breathing wasn’t so fucking erratic.

Mickey places his hand on Ian’s back, and bites down on his need to get defensive and feel hurt when Ian jerks away from it. It’s like the saddest fucking chase of the century, Ian squirreling away inch by inch towards the edge of the bed every time Mickey touches him, but Mickey doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let the fight or flight response win, not tonight, even if every gap of distance Ian creates feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“You’re going to run out of bed soon,” Mickey tells him, keeping his voice low and soft, but that doesn’t seem to deter Ian in the state he’s in. When he moves again, he nearly tips off the bed, and Mickey grabs him firmly by the arm and drags him back to the center of the bed. “Persistent little bitch, aren’t you?”

Ian tries to get away again, but Mickey doesn’t let up his hold on Ian’s bicep.

“Well you’re not the only fucking one.”

“Leave me alone.” Ian’s voice is quiet, flat. Lifeless. It’s the same thing he always says whenever Mickey tries. Whenever anyone tries. The words cut and flay just like they have a hundred times before, and Mickey closes his eyes against them. Not this time.

“This is my fucking bed, grumpy,” Mickey counters, and Ian tries to roll away, to dig his face into the pillows, but Mickey keeps his hold fast.

“Go away.” Ian’s voice drops lower, just a hiss.

“ _No_.”

“I said to leave me the fuck alone!” Ian’s voice raises, high and shrill for just a moment, and he struggles in Mickey’s grasp, the anger quick and sudden and thrashing. And Mickey holds on, even as Ian scratches at his arms and fights with all the energy he has (which isn’t much) to get away from him.

It’s that which hurts more than every slice of his nails, every flail of his legs that collides somewhere with Mickey’s body in a tantrum-powered kick. Ian screaming like a prisoner trying to escape, like Mickey is some fucked up cage, tears him in half.

“I’m not fucking going anywhere, you hear me?” Mickey hisses into Ian’s ear, mind flicking back over all the things he’d read, all the things he’d remembered. “I’m staying right here. I’m staying with you.”

“ _No_ ,” Ian shrieks, ramming his fists against Mickey’s hold. “Go away! Get the fuck out!”

“You think you get a fucking say in this? ‘Cause you don’t!” Mickey yells back.

But most importantly, he just holds on and doesn’t let go.

“Get away from me!” Ian howls, but his clawing attacks become less about his nails doing any damage and more like his fingers looking for purchase, for something to grab onto.

“No can do. You’re stuck with me, whether you fucking like it or not.”

And then Ian is clutching him, pulling on him, needing him closer, and Mickey goes. The emotion shuddering through his body turns from anger to desperation in a blink, seething, heaving breathes turning into choked off sobs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mickey promises him, slowly twisting Ian in his arms. It’s the most emotion he’s seen Ian show in days, even though Mickey knows he cries. He’s seen the glassiness in his eyes, the single tears that fall without the slightest acknowledgement, but that’s not what this is. This is full out, heart-wrenching sobbing, with the furrowed brow and the quivering lip and all the other shit that makes Mickey pull Ian’s face into his neck and hold him.

God, it feels like fucking forever since Mickey’s held him.

“Never gonna leave you alone, you understand me, Gallagher?” Mickey whispers, hands running up through Ian’s dirty hair and down his naked back. “Not fucking ever.”

Because Mickey gets it a little better now. He gets that the stillness, the pulling away, the screaming at him to go the fuck away, that’s all just a part of this.

And he remembers reading about that woman, the one who said that she would always isolate herself, always tell the people around her to go away and to leave her alone, even when she didn’t fucking mean it. Even when she meant the exact opposite. Even when what she needed was people there for her. Some sort of self-inflicted punishment shit where she didn’t think anyone would stay and kept driving them away to nail it home.

_When you’re broken, you feel like you don’t deserve anything. You convince yourself that you don’t. Because nobody loves the broken toy. It’s easier to believe that the people you love would rather just throw you to the side and find something new and undamaged, instead. So you drive them away before they can abandon you, and tell yourself it will hurt less. And every time they leave, it perpetuates the cycle. Over and over and over again._

Mickey presses a kiss fiercely to Ian’s hairline, and whispers over and over and over, “I’m here, Ian. I’m here. I’m here.”

He might not be able to fix Ian, but he sure as fuck can be there for him.

**Author's Note:**

> As a side note, I made up all the stuff Mickey was mentally quoting at the end for fic purposes so. Yeah. (Again, based on personal experience than actual research because I used this fic as a therapeutic exercise).
> 
>  
> 
> [Read & Reblog on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/95425098965/come-here-never-leave-this-place)


End file.
